


World Dance

by missbip0lar, neenya



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance Competition, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Jealous Yuri Plisetsky, Loss of Virginity, Lots of kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Otabek is hot and everyone knows it, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Yuri Being A Drama Queen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-03 15:24:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10970049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbip0lar/pseuds/missbip0lar, https://archiveofourown.org/users/neenya/pseuds/neenya
Summary: In the midst of an internationally televised dance competition, Yuri Plisetsky must come to terms with the harsh realities of other people's judgement, perverted choreographers, and trying to keep his head above water while he falls in love with his dance partner.AKA The Reality Show AU literally no one asked for.A Collaboration with @neenya for the Otayuri Reversebang 2017, hosted on tumblr by @yurioniceshelter





	World Dance

**Author's Note:**

> This entire thing would never have been possible without [neenya](http://neenya.tumblr.com) and [my esteemed beta reader, anna](http://otayuriistheliteralbest.tumblr.com)
> 
> neenya, I hope this lives up to your expectations - i had so much fun writing it and thank you for giving me the freedom to run with my insane ideas. your art is honestly so beautiful and i am always telling my mutuals to check you out because _wow._
> 
> anna, your praise means a lot to me and thank you so so much for turning my mess into something legible. i could never have gotten this posted on time without you!

Nikolai Plisetsky should be asleep at this late hour, but with his grandson halfway across the world performing in that silly televised dance competition, he finds himself each week glued to his favorite armchair at whatever ungodly hour, watching live. He knows very little of _World Dance,_ aside from what Yuri has told him and what he has seen this season. The dancers are honing in on the finals; the last three couples have been working hard all week. Yuri and his Kazakh partner have drawn ballet for their semifinal style, and they look lovely. Yuri is wearing a glittery backless number that accentuates his delicate bone structure and leaves nothing to the imagination. The Kazakh boy’s costume matches him, but bares his strong arms. 

Over the years of Yuri's dance preoccupation, Nikolai has, admittedly, learned very little. He knows the basics, of course, and can marvel at his grandson’s perfect arabesque here and the Kazakh boy’s strength in his lifts there. It's beautiful watching them move together, and he wonders if the two of them realize just how much they have grown in the past three months or so that they have worked with each other. Nikolai saw Altin’s audition when he went with Yuri to St Petersburg for his own, and Altin is a completely different dancer now than he was, even then. Nikolai suspects his grandson is behind the change, and that Altin has affected Yuri in the same way. Yuri _smiles_ at his partner in a way Nikolai has never seen him smile before. 

Over the course of this competition, Yuri Plisetsky has fallen in love, and Nikolai sincerely hopes he does not ruin it all with his pride. 

\---

The judges’ table is on a raised dais just to Yuri's right, almost at the same height as the stage. The crowd is a writhing mass of life and shrieks and Yuri is high on it. He is exhausted, and Otabek is still holding him aloft in a perfectly executed boat lift; the muscles in his arms are trembling, his breathing ragged and strained. Yuri rakes his fingers through Otabek's hair, the signal they'd agreed on for Otabek to set him down, and though he tries to set Yuri down gently, the strain still gets to him. Yuri's feet hit the stage with a small _thump,_ and then Yuri is turning to wrap his partner in a tight hug. 

“I can't believe how well that went,” Otabek whispers into Yuri's ear, and it takes every tightly strung thread of self control Yuri still has to not fucking kiss him. 

The crowd is still roaring, the cameras around them swiveling this way and that to catch every angle, every sparkling sequin on their matching costumes. Their choreographer for the ballet set, Mila, is crying in the front row, applauding and screaming with pride. Yuri tries not to wonder what the audience sitting in front of their television sets - armed as they are with Twitter and hashtags - thought of their set. He and Otabek will both know by the time they get back to their hotel. 

JJ is over by the judges’ table grinning like the idiot he is, microphone poised at his lips waiting for the audience to calm themselves. Otabek takes Yuri's hand in his, and leads them to where JJ stands. 

“What a performance!” He beams, pinning Otabek with that fucking look that makes Yuri want to claw his eyes out. “Beka, you were having trouble during rehearsals with the lifts, right?”

Otabek grins back and responds, but Yuri is fuming inside, an inner mantra of _I'm the only person here who's allowed to call him Beka you shitstain_ rattling around over and over again in his head. He is writhing inside with jealousy, careful not to let the rage show on his face; so many weeks of this has proven to him just how observant the general public can be, and Yuri's possessiveness of his partner has become a hot topic in recent weeks. 

JJ begins to fire questions and commentary his way and Yuri responds in the way he always does: with confidence that borders on arrogance and petty little passive aggressive criticisms of his competitors. Otabek smacks his arm goodnaturedly and smiles fondly at him. Yuri can practically feel the hearts forming in his eyes, and visions of candid photographs of the two of them looking at each other like stupid love-drunk kids dance in his head. 

The judges are still waiting patiently; Viktor is as cool and composed as always, Katsuki’s wearing a gently approving smile, and Yuuko is grinning through her tears like a graduate’s mother. When Yuri and Otabek finally turn their attention toward the judges’ table, Yuri's heart does skip a few beats in anticipation. 

“Yuuko,” JJ prompts, “what did you think?”

“Oh my god that was _lovely!_ ” She gushes. “Otabek I can't believe hearing you'd had trouble with your lifts! You were so graceful and strong, and your movements were very fluid. Yuri… your lines were strong, as always, but… the focus tonight was really on Otabek, I think. We all know how lovely you are in your element,” she goes on, and Yuri tries not to let his heart sink down into his shoes, “but Otabek really, really surprised us tonight.”

Yuri wraps an arm around Otabek's back and gives him a quick, supportive squeeze. Otabek squeezes him back as Viktor flips his hair out of his eyes and zeroes his gaze in on Yuri. 

“Yuri, it's such a nice change to see you upstaged,” he says, and Yuri loses the battle with his sinking heart. To add insult to injury, Viktor continues: “You're not surprising people anymore; you keep doing the same things over and over. I know you've seen the Twitter commentary; your look, your aesthetic, your androgyny… it's all coming off as a gimmick. Tonight may have driven the final nail into your coffin; your ballet is pretty, but your performance was stale.”

Otabek runs a comforting palm down Yuri's back as Viktor moves on, “Otabek, you saved tonight's set. Your hard work is paying off and if you do advance to finals, it will be because of the strength you displayed tonight. You carried him,” Viktor says, nodding at Yuri, “literally and figuratively.”

Yuri is unsure whether the tingling in his fingers and the heat building in his chest and his cheeks are because of his fury or his embarrassment or something else entirely. He wants so badly to be proud of Otabek (and he is, he is, _he is_ ), but he is also _offended_ and _angry_ and _sad_ and _embarrassed_. JJ moves on to ask Katsuki for his judgment, and Yuri finds himself grasping for any kind of approval that he _begs_ with his eyes for Katsuki to say _something_ positive. _Anything_ , he pleads silently. 

“I thought you were both lovely,” Katsuki tells them quietly. “Yuri, Viktor says you've stopped surprising the audience. I disagree. I was surprised that you allowed Otabek to lead you tonight. Your proficiency in ballet is obvious and pronounced, and you're anything but modest. I didn't expect you to _allow_ yourself to be upstaged, but you _did_. That alone is surprising. I'm sure there were many more late night practices than we were privy to, where you helped Otabek get those lifts just right.” Yuri nods furiously, glad to have Katsuki to count on this week. 

“Viktor is hard on you,” Katsuki explains, “because he sees so much of his younger self in you. Trust me on this,” Katsuki says over the crowd’s chuckling, “he once said during judging that you are ‘more mediocre than you think,’ and he knows he can't say that anymore. You have grown, Yuri, but you need to work on your modesty. I hope you make finals; I'm excited to see you surprise us again.”

Yuri is not completely satisfied with this outcome, but it is better than nothing, and when he and Otabek are dismissed from the stage, he promptly breaks the fuck down. Otabek holds him. 

“Yura, I thought you were great,” he whispers. “There are no cameras around right now, talk to me.”

“He called me _stale,_ Beka. I can't be washed up at nineteen years old.”

“You're not,” Otabek assures him. “I would never have done so well tonight if not for you. Katsuki was right - you know that. All those middle of the night rehearsals, the over and over again with the lifts… ‘From the top, Beka!’” Otabek chuckles in a poor imitation of Yuri's commanding tone. Yuri laughs a little, too, in spite of himself; he sniffles and drags the back of his hand across his eyes. Pulling back to look Otabek in the eyes is like a balm to his frayed nerves. 

“I really am proud of you, Beka,” Yuri tells him. “You worked so fucking hard this week.”

Otabek pulls him into another tight embrace, says, “Thank you,” so quietly Yuri barely hears it, but that whisper is all it takes to steady him. “We'll make it to finals,” Otabek promises, and Yuri believes him. 

So they go back to the hotel, and Yuri scrolls through Twitter and Instagram without shame. It seems pretty evenly split; many of the viewers of _World Dance_ agree with Viktor that Yuri has become flat and boring and stale, but many others think Yuri is just fine and that his confidence and ambition will pull him through the competition. Otabek's reviews are exactly what Yuri expects, and he is glad for it. People are taking more notice of him now than they had been before. Yuri is sharing the spotlight and for once in his life it doesn't suck. Otabek deserves every ounce of praise he is getting and his heart swells with joy. Maybe there's a little something else there, too - something tickling the surface of his consciousness and longing to break free. 

_But it's not the right timing,_ Yuri continues to tell himself, as he's been telling himself for weeks now. _It could ruin the rest of the competition for us._

After a long night of agonizing over their fate in the runnings and restless sleep, the results are in. Otabek keeps his promise and they make it to the final week, the top two couples, _the finals._ Their competition, Phichit Chulanont from Thailand and Seung Gil Lee from Korea, have been strong dancers since the very beginning and will be tough to beat. Phichit and Seung Gil pull the jazz card from JJ’s fingertips when he offers up dance styles for the finals, which could potentially suck because it's Seung Gil’s primary style. 

But then Yuri pulls Lyrical Hip Hop, and their chances of winning soar. Otabek is the last hip hop dancer in the competition, and he's _good._ He hasn't yet had the opportunity here to show off, and Yuri's pretty confident in his own ability to adapt. 

After the live announcement the dancers are dismissed with final words from the judges. Yuri tries to let Viktor's criticisms roll off his back, but Otabek notices his tension and sends him back to the room by himself for a little bit of quiet while he runs a few errands. Yuri spends that time taking selfies in the bathroom mirror with his shirt off, considering his hair. Viktor and the viewers both have been critical of his androgyny. And while he can't do anything overnight about his waifish build, the hair could potentially be… worked with. 

When Otabek comes back it is with three bottles of champagne and Chinese takeout. They eat a buffet of sesame chicken and fried rice and wonton soup and egg rolls like kings. And Otabek pours them glass after glass of cheap champagne into plastic red solo cups and they _drink_. They laugh about everything and they scoot closer and closer to each other on their hotel room floor the more tipsy they get. By midnight they are well and truly _drunk_ , and Yuri gets an idea. 

“Beka you should cut my hair like yours.”

Otabek chokes on his champagne. “ _What?!_ ”

“You should cut my hair,” Yuri repeats with a smile. “These fuckers wanna be so critical of how _pretty_ I am? Fine. Let's rob them of my most feminine feature. I'm okay with it,” he laughs, reassuring the dumbstruck look on Otabek's perfectly chiseled face. “We're just gonna take one last picture of it before we do it.”

“Right,” Otabek jokes. “One last picture for your army of followers.”

“Exactly. It's brilliant, don't you see? Viktor has gone on and on and on about my ‘gimmicky aesthetic’ or whatever. I'm gonna surprise ‘em.”

“Is this the way, though, Yura?” Otabek asks quietly. 

“It'll grow back,” Yuri scoffs, a little miffed that his ingenious idea isn't being appreciated. “Please, Beka, I want you to do this for me.”

“Okay,” Otabek relents. “But I think we should keep the top of yours a little longer. You'll be able to do more with it that way.”

“Okay,” Yuri sighs. “Will you take the picture for me?”

He presses his phone into Otabek's hand and tears his shirt over his head. He arranges his hair over his shoulder and turns what he hopes is a sexy look on Otabek, who lines up the shot and snaps a picture. Before Yuri can move, though, Otabek reaches for him. Yuri's heart races a little as Otabek takes a lock of his hair between two fingers and separates it from the rest. He sets the phone down and moves closer. Yuri feels heat crawling up his chest and face, unable to stop his flush at the unchoreographed proximity. Otabek braids the lock of hair, his face set in drunken determination. When he's done he lets his touch linger for just a moment. 

Yuri allows Otabek to arrange his hair, shaking it out and making it a little messy. It falls over his shoulders like running water, and Otabek looks at it a little sadly. He combs his fingers through it, like he can't believe he is allowed to, and Yuri is beginning to doubt his decision. When Otabek finally backs away he is snapping picture after picture of Yuri caught off guard, just gazing at him, and then he's handing Yuri his phone back. 

There's a charged moment as the phone changes hands, where their fingers brush together and ignite sparks between them. Neither of them says anything, but they share a look that says more than words can right now. Yuri flips through the pictures Otabek took and decides on one. He meticulously chooses a filter to bring out his eyes and the bright color of his hair and, feeling a little petty, slaps on a middle finger and scissors emojis, and then tags Viktor directly. Posting it feels liberating, but also like he can't go back, now. 

When he looks up from his phone it's to find Otabek staring at him. Maybe it's the champagne, or maybe it's just this thing between them growing too large to keep on a leash. It's becoming more and more difficult lately for Yuri to stop himself from kissing him. He could give in… he could throw caution to the wind _right now_ and just _do it._

Otabek clears his throat and stands up, a little unsteady on his feet. “I should get my clippers,” he murmurs. 

“Right, yeah,” Yuri agrees. He gets to his feet as well. “I'll just get the, uh, the chair.” 

Getting the hotel room swivel desk chair from one end of the room into the large bathroom is easier than anticipated. What's harder, though, is trying to remove to the topmost portion of the chair to accommodate Yuri's height. Otabek helps him pry it off and then he's sitting, facing the mirror, meeting Otabek's eyes in the reflection. He has his clippers in one hand and the last bottle of champagne in the other. He takes a swig from the bottle and then passes it to Yuri, who drinks deep and savors the knowledge that he is drinking from the same bottle Otabek just had his mouth on. It would be unreasonable to call it an indirect kiss, but, well… 

Yuri puts the bottle on the counter and settles back into the chair while Otabek sets up his clippers and examines Yuri's hair. 

“Are you going as short as mine on the sides?” Otabek asks. Yuri nods, and Otabek switches out one extension for another on the clippers. “Ready?”

Yuri has been stung by a bee only once in his life. He was four years old, racing a girl his age through a meadow in Scotland, where he and his Dedushka were spending a week with an old war buddy or something like that. The little girl was winning their race, shrieking with joy at her imminent victory, when the buzzing started. In retrospect it was probably just one single solitary little bee, but to a four year old Yuri the buzzing was so, so loud - it sounded like there were thousands of them. 

The noise grew and grew, and with it came a kind of life or death fear that Yuri will never not associate with insects with stingers. That day, Yuri was stung behind the ear, and the allergic reaction set in almost instantaneously. It began as a tingle in his lips and tongue that moved outward to his swollen fingers and toes. His heart fluttered, raced, threatened to leap from his chest. He was overheated, could hardly breathe. His vision swam and his tongue felt like a slab of sandpaper too large for his mouth. He remembers rough hands lifting him up, his Dedushka’s curses and pleas. There were sirens, he thinks, and a second sting to his thigh. It took no time, after that second sting, for Yuri to begin to draw full breaths again, for his vision to stop swimming. That fear - that life or death, fight or flight terror - is something Yuri will carry with him forever. Buzzing, buzzing, _buzzing_ , and then an accelerated heart rate, shortness of breath, dizziness. It's like he relives it. 

When Otabek starts up the clippers just behind his right ear, Yuri knows it's not a bee. He _knows,_ but he still goes rigid; and it is not even the buzz of the clippers that flips the switch on his anxiety all the way up to eleven this time - it's Otabek's closeness. It's Otabek's hands pulling the top half of Yuri's hair into a bun and his fingers lingering against his neck; it's the concentration in his expression as he drags the clippers across the back and sides of Yuri's head. Yuri feels the hair fall, some of it to the floor, while some of it lands in his lap. It takes no time at all for so much hair to be just… gone. 

“I can't believe you're cutting all your hair off,” Otabek says, mesmerized as he pushes the clippers slowly over a place he missed. 

“Technically, _you're_ cutting it,” Yuri reminds him. There's something else he means to say, too, but then Otabek's fingernails are scratching over the new short bristles at the nape of Yuri's neck and he forgets. He shivers, instead. 

Otabek clutches for the bottle still on the counter and takes a couple of deep swallows of champagne before handing the bottle over to Yuri. Yuri presses the bottle to his lip and drinks (and drinks and drinks) as Otabek sets the clippers down and trades them for shears. 

“Done this before, have you?” Yuri asks before he can stop himself. 

“Yeah,” Otabek says. “Cheaper to… do my own myself…” He's slurring heavily now. Which begs the question…

“Ever done it drunk before?”

“It's gonna look _great,_ ” Otabek deflects. Yuri laughs, and is drunk and happy enough himself to believe him. 

He lets Otabek pull the elastic from his hair and run his fingers through it. He's tugging in a way that makes Yuri's cock perk up like _Hey there, pal, you have my attention_ and Yuri chooses to blame that on the alcohol. 

“Look down,” Otabek instructs, his voice a little huskier than usual, and Yuri does without hesitation. There's the _snipsnipsnip_ of Otabek's shears, and another few inches of Yuri's hair fall to the floor. 

It goes on like that for what must be hours, and Yuri is acutely aware of where Otabek is at every single moment. He can feel the heat radiating off of him. He can feel the light scrape of Otabek's fingernails over his scalp and his neck and the shell of his ear and it is _maddening_. He can see Otabek's intensity in his reflection in the mirror. He's got this crease, right between the his eyebrows, and the deeper it gets the more Yuri knows how difficult it is for Otabek to concentrate. Yuri can watch him fight the urge to really touch and it makes him wish Otabek would just give in. It would be so much easier if Beka's the one to finally cave. That would take the blame off of Yuri's shoulders if it all goes to shit. 

For all of Yuri's arrogance and posturing, he's never really _sure_ about anything. He knows he is a talented dancer and a pretty face, but what else does he have to offer Otabek? A whole lot of nothing? Yuri barely has a solid identity outside of _Dance, Succeed, Make Them Proud_. Who is he when the pointe shoes come off? He is spiteful and petty, the kind of nineteen year old boy to cut all his hair off when his femininity is criticized. He is the kind of boy to fall in love with one of the first real friends he has ever had. 

Otabek is tilting his head this way and that, lost in the layers of hair on Yuri's head and just _snipsnipsnipping_ away. Every once in awhile he scratches all along Yuri's scalp and it takes everything Yuri has to not moan. He tilts Yuri's head to face forward and plays with Yuri's natural part, manipulating the hair around it to lie a certain way, and then he's taking the excess and _snipsnipsnipping_ again. Yuri's not sure how much of his shameless staring is going noticed, but he's finding Otabek's reflection distracting. So, for once, he _really_ indulges. 

He hasn't put the bottle of champagne back, and draws from it every once in awhile as he watches Otabek work. He watches his ever-expressive eyebrows furrow and relax and jump and _smile_ (how does a person _smile_ in their _eyebrows_ \- this boy is an anomaly). He watches Otabek bite his lip when he worries he's done something wrong and then his nose crinkle in triumph when he realizes he was right all along. He watches Otabek meet his eyes in the mirror, watches the flush bloom on the apples of Otabek's cheeks. He watches Otabek _bite his fucking lip_ when he runs his fingers through the much shorter tresses of Yuri's hair. 

But Yuri also watches himself. He melts under Otabek's hands. He doesn't even _have_ to see it, he can feel it. Yuri fucking _swoons._ He tilts back into Otabek's touch, practically purrs every single time Otabek's fingernails find his scalp. It's lowkey humiliating. More than that, though, it's _arousing._ Yuri might be harder than he's ever been in his _life_. 

Eventually, after Yuri is _sure_ his pining could not possibly be mistaken for anything but the truth, Otabek declares him done, and Yuri finally looks at what's become of his hair. The longest of it will fall to his chin, and only if it's parted the right way. It can very clearly be worn either tied back in a ponytail or styled to one side. He'll be able to wear it as is on lazy days and still look… boyishly handsome. 

“I love it,” Yuri proclaims as he swivels the chair around to look Otabek in the face. 

What almost came out was _I love you_ , because _fuck_ \- he does. Otabek sees him and understands him in a visceral and intimate way that no one else ever has. And they've never even kissed. There's no way for Yuri to reconcile the maelstrom of emotions he's feeling right now with drunken, dopey little smile that Otabek is wearing. 

“I'm glad you love it,” Otabek says, awkwardly. Yuri goddamned loves him _even more._

“Well,” Yuri stammers, fighting a smile. It's not working. “Thanks for doing this for me, Beka. It means a lot. You me-”

The trill shriek of Yuri's phone cuts him off mid sentence. A quick look to the clock in his room says it's two in the morning here, which means nine in the morning back home in St Petersburg. Which means…

“Yuratchka!” booms Yakov over speaker phone when Yuri finally answers on the fourth ring. “Что вы наделали?!”

_What have you done._

“All I did was cut my hair, you senile old fool!” 

“You should have consulted Lilia and myself!” Yakov cries. It's a miracle he hasn't deafened himself. 

“My hair does not belong to either of you!” Yuri shouts back. “It's fucking late! I'm going to bed!”

Yakov has just enough time to spit, “You'd better not be fucking that Kazakh boy!” before Yuri smashes the end button. Silence falls. 

Otabek is the first to chuckle. Yuri looks up at him, and then neither of them can hold back their laughter. They laugh until their bellies hurt, and then Otabek picks his clippers up from the bathroom counter and packs them away, taking his leave so Yuri can shower. 

“Save me some of that sesame chicken!” He calls just before Otabek closes the bathroom door. 

\----

Their choreographer for the finals is notorious for his sex fueled routines. Christophe Giacometti is tall and handsome and Swiss. He's got obscenely long eyelashes, legs that go on for miles, and a flirtatious streak so obvious and lewd it should be illegal. Yuri hates him almost immediately; it takes one instance, not five minutes after they walk through the studio door, of Chris staring at Otabek's ass, for Yuri to fucking _despise him._

“Lyrical Hip Hop,” Chris says with a flourish. “What is it?”

“It's a modern hip hop style,” Otabek answers without missing a beat, “that combines classic hip hop movements - popping, locking, breaking - with the softer movements borrowed from jazz, ballet, and contemporary. It focuses on softer lines and movements than classic hip hop while still incorporating the basics.”

“Very good,” Chris gushes. Yuri wants to hit him. “I consider myself lucky to get to work with the last hip hop and ballet dancers in this competition for the finals. I have a _sensational_ routine planned for the two of you. Are you ready to get to work?”

The dance tells a story, as a lot of Chris’s routines have in the past. The story he's chosen for Yuri and Otabek is a chase, a courting. It's playful and sexy, the two of them coming together and breaking apart, teasing and taunting each other. The story ends, of course, with the two of them coming together a final time, Otabek on his back with Yuri astride his thighs. 

It's the most intimate choreography they've had to tackle together and it's _hard._ In more ways than one, but Yuri's not willing to admit that aloud. Chris barks at them, “ _Closer!”_ over and over again, every time their bodies begin to drift away from each other when they shouldn't be. Yuri wants to scream at him. 

“No, Yuri, _no!_ ” Chris spits during one practice three days into their rehearsals. “Let me show you.”

And he pushes Yuri aside, coming to stand up against Otabek. His back is flush against Otabek from his shoulders to his thighs, his ass pressing unabashedly against Otabek's crotch. Yuri grits his teeth. 

“You _want_ him, Yuri,” Chris instructs, and really he has _no fucking idea._ “In this moment you are beginning to give in to it. You are _savoring_ his body and his hands on you. Beka, darling, your hands _here_ on his chest and _here_ on the crease of his thigh and hip. _Good,_ ” he purrs. Yuri's jaw might actually break with how hard he is snarling. 

Chris steps away from Otabek and flashes Yuri a pleased and knowing little smirk. “Try again,” he sing songs. 

They try again. And again. And again. With the night practices Otabek talks him into, they get better. It gets easier. Yuri gives himself over to it, allows the music and the choreography and his fucking feelings for his partner take him away like the tide. His touches linger, tease; he lets his body taunt Otabek from afar. And Otabek gives as good as he gets. His hands wander perhaps more than the choreography calls for, he rubs himself tantalizingly on Yuri. 

The tension between them very nearly comes to a head during their final night practice. They really don't even _need_ the night practices anymore; Otabek has coached him through the movements so many times Yuri is relatively certain he will be able to dance this routine in his sleep for the rest of his life. They don't need to practice after hours anymore but they still do, because it's as good an excuse as any to be pressed up against each other, sweaty and panting. 

There's a moment, near the end, where Yuri is essentially falling into Otabek's arms. It's one of those dance positions that's been snatched directly from ballet; Yuri's got one hand lightly resting on the back of Otabek's neck, the other stretched out over Otabek's shoulder. Their chests are touching, Otabek's hand is resting on the small of Yuri's back. They're facing each other in such a way that all Yuri would have to do is tilt his head and apply the barest amount of pressure to the nape of Otabek's neck, and they would be kissing. 

They're both thinking about it. Otabek keeps looking at Yuri's mouth and Yuri can't seem to look at anything but Otabek's eyes, at how dilated his pupils are. Yuri swallows, unsure if the pounding in and against his chest is his heart, Otabek's, or a combination of the two. 

“From the top, Yura,” Otabek whispers, and it sounds like he's choking on the words. 

“Beka,” Yuri whispers back, begging, so desperate for him it hurts. 

“No,” he says, direct and final, stepping away from Yuri. Yuri lets himself go all but limp. “I won't discuss it until the competition is over.”

“But -” Yuri protests. 

“No,” Otabek says again. Yuri sways a little. His heart and stomach have both taken up residence in his shoes. “Maybe we should just go back to the hotel.”

Yuri can't find his voice, so he just nods in response. Together they gather their things, the thick and heavy silence between them making it hard to breathe. He wants to apologize, but there's nothing to be sorry for, nothing he genuinely regrets. He just thought… but it doesn't matter anymore. Yuri was wrong, and everything he feels will go on being unrequited. Tomorrow they'll dance the routine Chris has saddled them with, Yuri will be embarrassed and uncomfortable and Otabek will be infuriatingly professional, and then they will win and part ways forever. Yuri will carry Otabek's haircut with him until it begins to grow out and then he will do something else with it. 

Life will go on, and it will only hurt for awhile. 

The walk from the studio to their hotel is a quick two blocks, but it feels so much longer with this silence that has settled between them. Yuri is lost in his head the whole way, analyzing every interaction they've shared up to this point, wondering how he'd misread everything so completely. He was _so certain_ Otabek was feeling the same way he was. No one looks at a _friend_ the way Otabek looks at him. A part of him wants to feel angry and betrayed and led on but that's not fair to Beka; he is not responsible for Yuri's emotions. 

Otabek still does not talk to him once they are in their room with the double beds and the spacious bathroom. Yuri takes his shower first and takes his sweet time out of spite. He does not cry. The hot water is fading by the time he finally shuts the shower off and dresses in the steamy bathroom, and Otabek doesn't even fucking _look_ at him as he walks across the room to his bed. 

Once Beka locks himself in the bathroom to take his own (lukewarm) shower, Yuri allows himself three minutes of tears and then angrily pulls himself together and burrows beneath the thick comforter for a night of restless sleep. 

\---

The next morning, the day of finals, dawns sunny and cool. Yuri eats breakfast alone in the hotel’s dining room for the first time since the start of the competition, and his sadness threatens to swallow him whole. He has his earbuds in to ensure he's not bothered, but he isn't paying attention to the music. His head is a mess of _why me_ and _where did I go wrong_ and _why am I so fucking stupid_ and _what could he possibly have seen in me._ He really needs to get his shit together; if this running commentary of self loathing goes on for much longer he will cost them both the competition. 

He thinks instead about the day of his audition, when Otabek first approached him and offered his friendship. Their unanticipated partnership when they got to New York was nothing short of miraculous. It was easy from the very beginning, building a friendship right alongside a working relationship. Yuri's not sure when his mind made the switch from friendship to something more, but it seemed to blossom overnight. And he thought… it doesn't matter what he thought. He was wrong. 

He hasn't eaten quite enough, but Yuri's appetite just isn't great today. With a sigh, Yuri leaves the dining room. He's not required to be anywhere until later in the afternoon, for interviews with the crew before tonight's final, and one last rehearsal with Beka and Chris. So he goes for a run. The city is alive with activity; college students hike their backpacks further up onto their shoulders and harried people in business suits scream into their cell phones and transfer their briefcases from one hand to another. A dog walker with thirteen leashes attached to her belt smokes a clove cigarette as her pack tugs her along. It's easy for Yuri to lose himself in the people watching. 

New York City is gorgeous, a cultural hub where even the most recognizable face can vanish into a crowd. It's crisp enough, even though it’s May, that he's glad he wore a jacket, but not so cold that he can see his breath. The others on the sidewalks around him pay no attention to Yuri; he is invisible, left alone to his tumultuous thoughts. And despite those tumultuous thoughts, this is the first time since last night that Yuri has felt at ease. He runs for what must be hours. He runs so far for so long he is suddenly grateful for the city's grid system to help him find his way back. 

Otabek isn't there when Yuri slides the key card into the lock and opens up their door. He tells himself he is not disappointed. He showers, sits around, tries to find something to occupy his racing mind. He goes over the choreography for tonight in his head for what must be the millionth time today, trying to determine _how in the fuck_ he is going to get through it without making a fool of himself. 

Time passes slowly. There is nothing poetic about it, nothing profound. It just… passes. Yuri feels melancholy, and then tired, and then anxious and bitter and insecure. There is so much roiling around in him it is unbearable. He thinks about going for another run to recapture that feeling of ease from this morning but immediately dismisses it as not worth it; there's no use wearing himself out before the final tonight. 

He worries about Otabek, eventually. He's been inactive on all his social media accounts and Yuri is hesitant to reach out to him. Finally, with a resigned sigh he taps out a quick text. 

_At least let me know you're alive_

Otabek's response comes back quickly. 

_I'm fine. At the studio with Chris._

And that's all it takes. Yuri throws his phone across the room in a fit of jealousy, silently grateful for the sturdy case his Dedushka bought him after Yuri shattered his last two phones out of anger. How _dare_ Otabek fucking _snub him like that_ and then go hang out with fucking _Christophe_. Yuri's vision is narrowing in a haze of _red_. He runs down a mental list of every single way he knows to kill a man, and then fantasizes about how to employ each method on Chris. He considers going down there, to the studio, shoving Chris as far away from Otabek as possible, kicking his kneecap over and over until his leg is bent all wrong and he'll never dance or choreograph another set again; he wonders how much force it would take. 

Beneath the rage, though, is _hurt._ Yuri can't understand how he could possibly have misinterpreted everything so phenomenally. _Where in the fuck did I screw up?_

Reluctantly, Yuri makes his way to the dance studio, where he's spent twelve fucking weeks getting to know Otabek and rehearsing with Otabek and eating and bonding and _falling the fuck in love_ with Otabek. Knowing he'll never step foot in the studio again after tonight is the very definition of bittersweet. Yuri meanders through the halls, not really avoiding his destination, but well… 

To Yuri's absolute horror, Chris is the one who finds him. 

“You don't seem like yourself today, Yura,” he says. Yuri barely keeps his temper. How the fuck would Chris even _know_ that Yuri doesn't seem like himself? They've known each other for a week. 

Yuri says nothing. 

“Beka thinks you are stressed,” Chris tries again, using a different tactic. Yuri would admire his tenacity if it weren't so fucking annoying. 

“Don't call him that.” It feels a little like nit-picking, but Yuri has no other response.

“Why not?” Chris asks, genuinely confused. 

_Because you don't know him like I do._ “Because it's not something for just _anyone_ to call him. It's like… it's like Yakov and my grandfather calling me Yuratchka. It's fond, it's…”

“It's something said out of love? Like a term of endearment?” Chris suggests with a hint of a smile. 

Yuri scoffs. “ _No_. Maybe. I don't know, alright, I just…”

“I know how you feel about Otabek.” It hits Yuri like a sucker punch. “I know that my choreography has only exacerbated it. I won't apologize, though, Yuri. You have both been putting off the inevitable for twelve weeks, now, and that is far too long for two people so attuned to one another to be dancing around the way they feel.”

“He doesn't fucking _want me,_ ” Yuri spits. “If he did he wouldn't have blown me off last night.”

“Have you considered why he might, even feeling the way you and I both know that he does?” Chris has that lascivious smirk creeping across his face and Yuri doesn't like it; it's a smirk that stinks of innuendo. “Imagine working out that latent sexual tension between the two of you before tonight's final. Do you really think you could dance my courting chase the way it's meant to be danced if you have already ended the very _real_ courting chase that is happening with you and Beka?”

Chris doesn't even let him respond. He leaves Yuri there with so much to consider that Yuri thinks his head must be spinning. He is shaken up; everything Chris said makes sense. But why not just _say that?_ Why the silent treatment and avoidance? If that is the case, then Yuri _really_ underestimated Otabek's determination for them to win this thing. If Chris is right - which, of course, Yuri will _never_ say aloud - today’s absence and jealousy and pining will be just the inspiration they need to win big.

\---

“Welcome back to _World Dance!_ ” JJ’s voice is as loud and obnoxious this week as it has been since the very beginning, and Yuri finds that now, in his last week with these people, he may come to miss it. “I’m Jean-Jacques Leroy coming to you live from beautiful New York City, where tonight our finalists will be facing off for the grand prize! We will see Korea’s Seung Gil Lee and Thailand’s Phichit Chulanont take on Kazakhstan's Otabek Altin and Russia’s Yuri Plisetsky, while you, our studio and at-home audiences, vote for your favorites!”

Backstage, Yuri stands before a full length mirror considering his reflection. The back of the tank top Chris picked out for him is artfully shredded to show off his back and shoulder blades, the dark jeans are acid washed and distressed, frayed in all the right places. The stylist has pulled back what’s left of his hair into a spiky ponytail and lined his eyes with heavy black pencil. The sequins on his shirt are going to sparkle and shine under the bright stage lights, and his heavy boots are the perfect complement to the intricate footwork at the beginning of the routine. He’s not getting nervous, exactly, but there is a kind of trepidation in him that Yuri will never get used to. Maybe it’s the rift between himself and Otabek, or maybe it’s seeing Seung Gil and Phichit sitting together over in the corner with a notebook between them, whispering back and forth. They seem to really be in this _together_ in a way that Yuri and Otabek kind of… _aren’t,_ right now. It’s disconcerting, and a little bit horrifying. If Otabek and Yuri don’t get their shit together in the next ten minutes, they’re _out._

Otabek materializes out of the shadows at Yuri’s side, then, as if summoned by Yuri’s thoughts. He looks _so good_ in his all-black ensemble. His open waist coat is the only shirt he’s wearing, the lines of his chest exposed and enticing. His jeans look like they could have been painted on they’re so tight. Yuri struggles not to stare at his reflection in the mirror. Otabek’s makeup is done the same way as Yuri’s, but his _hair…_

“Curls?” Yuri teases.

Otabek takes it for the half-assed apology it is, runs his fingers unselfconsciously through his hair. “I think I like it,” he says quietly, meeting Yuri’s eyes in the mirror. “Yura, you look really good.”

Yuri’s heart leaps and flutters, his body acutely aware of Otabek’s eyes on him, but all he says is, “So do you, Beka.” 

“Listen, Yura, I -”

“No,” Yuri interrupts. “You were right. We’ll discuss it afterwards. Tonight, we dance.”

“So you’re not mad?” Otabek asks him, obviously suspicious.

“I never said that.”

There’s an intern with a headset and a clipboard making her way toward them, and Yuri knows it’s time. They are led onto the dark stage while the venue’s enormous retractable Jumbotron displays clips from their rehearsals this week and their interviews from earlier today. Yuri can’t help but watch, and hopes that Otabek is, too.

On the screen, Otabek is smiling and laughing, his hands on Yuri’s hips to keep him from falling over. Chris is the first one being interviewed, and the screen is showing him gesticulating wildly as he talks about Yuri and Otabek’s chemistry together.

“I had no idea this was the routine I would be using for the finals,” Chris is saying on the screen. “It’s lucky that this was the couple I was assigned. I really don’t think it would have worked with anyone else.”

The camera switches to Yuri, and he very nearly grimaces at how angry he looks on the screen. The live audience is screaming over Yuri’s description of their set, probably shocked stupid at Yuri’s sudden haircut. Yuri counts it as a small victory already.

“Are you going to win tonight?” Yuri hears the interviewer asking off-screen, and he’s glad they kept this part of the interview.

“Yeah,” Yuri hears himself say with confidence. “If Beka and I can put aside the fight we had last night, absolutely. And there’s no one else I would rather win this competition with.”

“Yeah, I guess you could call it a fight,” Beka is saying in his own interview, then. “It was stupid, I said something stupid and I didn’t explain. Winning this thing tonight is the most important thing in the world for Yuri, and I am _positive_ that if last night had gone any other way than it did, we both would have jeopardized tonight’s success. It sucks that he’s pissed, but if he uses that anger while we dance tonight, we’re going to win.”

Yuri takes a deep, steadying breath, squares his shoulders. He hears the Jumbotron retracting back into the ceiling, and then the bright white stage lights come up, and the music starts. Yuri stomps his foot, his back to the audience, looking at Otabek. Otabek is doing the same, in perfect time with Yuri. Yuri shimmies, spins into Otabek’s arms, flits away, and the chase is on. For as sexually charged as the dance already was when the tension between them was vague and hypothetical, now it is worse with the underlying anger still seeping through Yuri’s veins. He really _feels_ it when Beka’s hands are caressing him while they dance close, and savors the split when he spins away. He shoves Otabek away by the chest, the skin there damp with sweat and so fucking sexy Yuri wants to pull him back. He does, when the choreography calls for it, twisting his fingers into Beka’s vest and yanking him forward.

Otabek’s hands are more aggressive here than they’d been in rehearsal, clutching his thighs and his hips and his ass. Yuri thinks of every time Chris had to bark at them, “Closer!” It’s no longer a problem. Even at their night rehearsals, neither of them dared to get this close, like they are fused together from thigh to shoulder. Yuri shoves Otabek away again, liking it less and less each time, and Beka catches his wrist to pull him forward again. It’s only then, when Otabek has arranged them into last night’s precarious position that very nearly undid all the hard work they’d put in, that Yuri realizes how very close they are to the end of their set. And, in turn, the end of the competition. They hold the position while the music slows, just a little, and Beka keeps glancing at Yuri’s lips again. This time, rather than looking unsure, his expression is that of a man who has made up his mind, definitively.

Yuri shoves Beka away one last time, and Otabek smiles as he catches Yuri’s wrist once more. They go to the floor together, Otabek on his back while Yuri straddles his thighs. Otabek’s hands are gripping Yuri hard, his thumbs pressing so tantalizingly into the soft flesh of his inner thigh. The music begins to fade out. Yuri is out of breath and hard in his jeans. And then Beka goes off script. He sits up, his hands slide from Yuri’s thighs to his ass, up the back of his shredded shirt to clutch at his shoulders and pull Yuri into a kiss - a real one - just as the stage lights are cut. They are left in complete darkness for… Yuri doesn’t even know how long. They _kiss_ and _kiss_ and _kiss_ , Beka’s stubble raking across Yuri’s lips while Yuri nips at Beka’s tongue. The shrieking of the crowd is muffled; Yuri’s world is narrowed down to his mouth, and Beka’s. 

When the house lights come up, they are still kissing. It’s way more public than a first kiss has any right to be, televised live for the entire fucking world to see, but Yuri is grateful for it. There is no question here. Otabek is _his_. Yuri is the one to break off their kiss, and even then they don’t get up and go to the judges like they should. Otabek is smiling dopily at him and Yuri feels victorious. The competition’s results won’t even be in until tomorrow, and Phichit and Seung Gil haven’t even danced yet, but Yuri has already won. He thought the competition was the most important victory, but _this_ \- Otabek’s lovestruck expression, Yuri’s hand resting on Otabek’s face like that’s where it has always belonged, as the crowd continues to cheer all around them - this is the victory that really matters.

Yuri barely hears what the judges have to say after that; he tunes them out right after Viktor admits he was surprised by Yuri’s decision to cut his hair. Yuri is hyperfocused on getting Otabek back to their hotel room. Otabek squeezes his hand every so often, and it takes a moment for Yuri to process that they are being praised and complimented, so he tries to listen.

“I can’t believe Chris has done it again,” Katsuki is chuckling, and Viktor’s giving him that same infatuated smile Otabek was just directing toward Yuri. “Chris’s choreography somehow works like Cupid’s arrow - that’s how Viktor and I got together.”

“You say ‘choreography’ like it was planned,” Viktor puts in. “The way I remember it, you got champagne-drunk at a party Chris and I just happened to be at, and then challenged everyone there to a dance off until Chris and I agreed.”

At least Katsuki has the good sense to look embarrassed. Otabek is holding back his laughter, but he is also so tightly strung that even Yuri can feel the tension in his muscles. Yuri hopes they are dismissed soon. _Finally_ , after an eternity of hearing what they already know ( _You did so well, you really brought Chris’s choreography to life, you were both so sexy and believable, that kiss at the end!_ ), Otabek drags Yuri off the stage. The moment they are alone, Beka is kissing him again. Here, in the relative privacy of the darkened backstage area, while everyone else is focused on setting up for Seung Gil and Phichit’s set, Beka presses Yuri up against a wall and puts his hands everywhere. It’s a miracle they can breathe, the way their mouths move together. Otabek’s hands roam over his back and his shoulders, his neck and cheeks and chest. Otabek touches him in every place he can reach.

“Beka,” Yuri hears himself whisper, his voice broke and desperate. “Let’s go back to the hotel.” 

“Yeah,” Otabek whispers back, struggling to pull himself together. “Yeah, not here. I’m so sorry about last night, Yura, I didn’t want to have to do that to you.”

Yuri puts a hand to Otabek’s chest, pushing him just far enough away so that they can move toward the locker room to change out before leaving.

“Then why did you?” Yuri asks once they’re finally outside. “Blow me off like that, I mean?”

“Oh, that. I guess it was because I thought the way I feel might have jeopardized our chances of winning,” Otabek says plainly. “It’s been important to you from the very beginning that we win, and I couldn’t be sure that you felt the same way.”

“Y’know, for someone so smart you’re really fucking dumb sometimes,” Yuri says with a shake of his head.

Otabek scoffs. “I knew you felt _something,_ ” he clarifies. “I just figured it was primarily sexual. Sorry, but I’m in this for the long run now and if you’re not, this would be the time to say something.”

“I love you,” Yuri blurts out, and tries to not instantly regret it. “This has _never_ been primarily sexual to me. I’m in this for the long run, too. For as long as you want me in your life.”

Beka stops their walking, here. The city that never sleeps is alive and bustling with people, but it’s like none of them exist; they are standing beneath a streetlamp, inches away from one another. Otabek brushes a stray lock of hair out of Yuri’s face and it feels like one of those silly soap operas Lilia loves so much. Beka kisses him again, and it’s like twelve weeks of pent up emotions seeping between them. The rush to get back to the hotel and get each other naked isn’t as strong now. 

“Are you hungry?” Beka asks. “Maybe we should do this right… go on a date before sleeping together.”

So they go on a date. Or, what could pass for a date, anyway. They get giant slices of pizza from a street vendor, and Beka buys a cheap six pack of wine coolers from a small bodega on the corner, its yellow awnings almost as bright as the neon sign advertising _COLD CUTS AND COLD BEER._ They find an abandoned stoop to claim as their seats, and just like that it is the most unorthodox date Yuri has ever been on. They eat their pizza and drink their overly sweet wine coolers - the label says _Jamaican Me Happy,_ which apparently Beka thinks is hilarious - and they talk about everything. They begin to come to terms with the fact that they have literally just kissed on live television and that they both are bound to have hundreds of voicemails from their families demanding to know what is going on. But both of their phones remain in their pockets, shut off.

They hold hands on the leisurely walk to the hotel, suddenly awkward and nervous over what they know is next to come. It feels as though they have been avoiding this, the final jump in their relationship. Yuri’s not going to say anything, but he’s probably more nervous than Beka at this point. They haven’t _talked_ about it, really, but Yuri is relatively certain that Beka has at least had _some_ kind of experience in this area. Yuri, on the other hand… there’s been some kissing and some petting, but he has never gone all the way. Yuri’s never even experienced an orgasm from someone else before. This is all going to be new to him, and he’s unsure whether he _should_ tell Beka.

The lobby, when they walk through the sliding glass doors of the hotel, is deserted. The concierge behind the desk smiles and waves at them, and Beka waves back. Yuri is too preoccupied with getting into the elevator and up to their room to really pay much mind to the concierge herself. His heart is racing and his palms are sweaty in his nervousness. He keeps thinking he should have had more to drink, or something stronger… The ride up to the eighth floor is spent kissing. Yuri has his hands buried in Otabek’s hair, running his fingers through and shaking out the product the stylist used to force his hair into the tight ringlets of curls. 

“I really did like your hair tonight,” Yuri murmurs against his mouth, before recapturing his lips.

Beka breaks away from their kiss. “No, wait, I meant to ask you - did you even hear what Viktor said to you tonight? You had no reaction, Yura, where were you during judging?”

“Still kissing you,” Yuri admits, a little surprised at himself that this is the first he’s really thought of the competition at all since actually dancing. “Why, what did he say?”

“He said you were at your strongest tonight, and that he was excited to _see us win tomorrow_ ,” Beka tells him. “He said you taking his advice to heart and chopping all your hair off like he did when he was your age was the last thing he expected you to do. And then he called me the sexiest contestant _World Dance_ has ever had. The other Yuuri agreed.”

“Well they’re not wrong,” Yuri agrees without hesitation. 

“I think we’re gonna win, Yura.” He says it like this is the first time he has ever _really_ considered it. Yuri doesn’t understand.

“Of _course_ we are going to win,” he says. “We are _good_ at this. You’re the best dancer I’ve ever worked with. I dance for a _living._ Do you not think you’re good?”

“I didn’t come here expecting to win,” Beka scoffs. “This _isn’t_ my career. I was honestly just auditioning because dancing is something I love to do. I know I’m pretty good but I thought _winning_ was never even a possibility.”

Yuri just stares. He’s not quite sure what to say. The elevator dings their floor and the door opens to reveal a familiar hallway. It feels like they have been in this elevator for hours. Yuri steps out and Beka follows.

“How did you not come in wanting to win?” he asks, still trying to understand. “I knew during auditions that winning was a very real possibility. Why do something at all if you’re not aiming to be the best at it?”

Beka laughs. “For fun?” he suggests. “Do you do _anything_ just for the fun of it?”

Yuri thinks about it. “No, I don’t think so. Basically everything is a competition to me. But it is pretty fun to be the best at something. Anything, really. Winning tomorrow will be pretty fun.”

“I can’t wait to take you out on the motorcycle,” Beka says. “You’ll love it. It’s just _fun._ There’s no way to turn it into a competition. It’s an adrenaline rush for the sake of an adrenaline rush.”

Yuri’s heart fills with joy, and he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he slips the key into their door and pushes it open and says, “Yeah, well, I can’t wait to learn how to drive your motorcycle and be better at it than you.”

Beka just shakes his head, exasperated, and pins Yuri to the door. Every time Beka kisses him something swoops through Yuri’s stomach, like the sensation of your chair falling backward after balancing it on the back two legs for too long. Yuri’s hands snake up the front of Beka’s shirt and he drags his fingernails over Beka’s ribs, grinning into their kiss when he gets a shiver out of him.

“How far do you want to go tonight, Yura?” Beka asks him.

“All of it.”

“Are you sure? We have all the time in the world.”

“Yes.” Yuri unfastens Beka’s jeans and reaches inside. Beka’s hard in his boxer briefs; Yuri’s stomach does that _swoop_ again. “I want to win tomorrow knowing what you _feel like._ Is that okay?”

“Fuck.” Beka swallows. He kisses Yuri again, harder than before. “Yes, yeah, that is definitely okay.”

Somehow they make it to a bed. Yuri has no idea whose; everything smells like Beka, everything. He has Yuri on his back with his legs spread, with an elbow holding up one of Yuri’s knees. Beka’s jeans are open, the swell of him prominent beneath the fabric of his underwear, and he’s rubbing against Yuri’s own erection. They’re panting each other’s names and Yuri is drunk on it. Beka’s neck tastes terrible, like cologne and sweat, but his skin feels like electricity beneath Yuri’s tongue.There are still too many layers between them, though, and Yuri begins to tear at Beka’s shirt. It takes no time for Beka to get the picture, and he pulls his own shirt _and_ Yuri’s over their heads in less time it takes Yuri to register it’s even happening, and then it’s nothing but _flesh_. Yuri’s leggings are pulled off in the next heartbeat and he is blessedly bare to Beka’s questing fingers and tongue. 

“ _Jesus, Beka,_ ” Yuri hears himself gasp as Beka seals his mouth over Yuri’s nipple. He’s got one hand wrapped in a loose circle around Yuri’s cock while the other rubs over his hole with his thumb. He adds a little pressure. 

“This what you want?” he asks in a whisper, and Yuri is starting to hate that fucking _swoop_. He arches into it, shudders a little. Nods. And then Beka’s touch is just _gone_. Yuri feels a little untethered. When Yuri finds the strength he lifts his head to find Beka, who’s across the room rummaging through his bag and shedding layers of clothes as he goes. When he turns around, Beka is holding a bottle of lubricant and a square foil packet. He looks like everything is really hitting home, the way it suddenly is for Yuri.

“I’ve never done this before,” Yuri blurts out, because Beka deserves to at least _know._

“But you _want to?_ ” he clarifies.

“Yes,” Yuri assures him.

“With me?”

“ _Absolutely._ ”

Beka’s expression shifts, then. He’s across the room in the time it takes Yuri to blink, dropping both the condom and the lube on the bed beside Yuri and kissing him for all he’s worth. He gets his underwear down in between kisses. His cock is hot against Yuri’s thigh, and Yuri finds himself reaching out, grasping for it. He wants to _touch it_ , at least, know the weight of him in his hand before feeling him inside. Beka shudders as Yuri drags his thumb through the slick fluid gathering at the tip of him. Yuri tugs at his foreskin, wondering what he tastes like. Some things can wait, he tells himself, and spreads his legs a little more. Beka moves, his mouth moving slowly down Yuri’s chest, his eyes watching Yuri’s for any hesitation. 

Beka kisses along Yuri’s flank, drags his teeth over Yuri’s hipbones, licks in the place between Yuri’s thigh and pelvis. Yuri is _hyper fixated_ on what Beka’s mouth is doing, where it’s headed, what that will fucking _feel like._ He doesn’t have to wonder for long; Beka doesn’t hesitate in licking a thick stripe over Yuri’s hole and _there’s that fucking swooping stomach again._ Yuri would be angry if didn’t feel so good. He’s losing his goddamned mind as Beka presses inside of him with the wet muscle of his tongue, his head thrashing back and forth while his hand clutches at Beka’s hair and his hips roll right along with Beka’s probing tongue. He’s making noises, babbling incoherent threats that if Beka _ever stops_ he will kill him. Vaguely Yuri is aware of the snap of a bottle being opened and closed, and then one of Beka’s fingers has replaced his tongue and is sliding into him. Yuri’s babbling becomes a steady stream of Beka’s name and a slew of swear words.

Yuri has disconnected from his body; his entire world narrows down to Beka’s fingers and _that thing inside him that they keep brushing over._ He thinks he can hear himself begging, but that can’t be right because Yuri doesn’t do shit like that, even when the torture goes on for _hours_. Beka’s fingers are relentless against that spot and Yuri keeps thinking he’s _there,_ he’s about to come, but then he _doesn’t,_ he _can’t,_ and he wants to fucking scream. His cock is standing, red and leaking and utterly neglected against his abdomen. Just when Yuri is ready to admit defeat, Beka’s touch disappears again. He can’t breathe, he can’t think just yet, but he can collect his wits now that he is unstimulated. Beka’s tearing open the condom packet and rolling it onto his dick. Yuri is _writhing,_ goddamned _ready for it._

“Are you sure?” Beka asks one last time for emphasis.

“Jesus, Beka, will you _please_ just fuck me before I kill you?”

Beka is fully sheathed in him before Yuri even finishes his threat. His throat closes, his vision tunnels. He is clutching at the sheets so tightly there’s no way he’s not ripping them. It goddamned _hurts._ Yuri once tore a tendon in his calf, and this is almost like that. But then Beka stays, and Yuri’s body adjusts, and then it’s just heavy pressure and Yuri’s not sure why everyone he’s talked to loves it so much. Beka shifts a little, pushes Yuri’s leg up toward his chest; he’s pressing against that spot inside that his fingers kept brushing against, and Yuri _understands._

“Go, go, go,” he urges, and Beka moves. He’s holding himself up by the elbows, and the muscles in his arms and back twitch every time he presses forward into Yuri’s body. He groans and shivers, his breath shaky and overwhelmed. It takes them no time at all to fall into a rhythm. Yuri is thrashing and crying out, unashamed and _truly_ having the time of his life. He still can’t believe it, with Beka’s face hovering over his, his expression twisted in a kind of ecstasy Yuri has never known before now. 

“Yura…” Beka whispers, like a prayer. “Yura, _fuck._ ”

Yuri moves with him, guides his hips where he wants them, takes control of his pleasure.

“I’m not going to last,” Yuri warns.

Beka pulls out and lays on his back on the bed. “So do it this way,” he says, guiding Yuri to straddle him. He slides right back in and Yuri rocks back and forth to take as much of Beka as he can. He won’t last any longer like this, he decides, but he savors it anyway. Beka kisses his neck and caresses his back, thrusting deep in time with Yuri’s movements. He is so full like this, and he can feel every twitch of Beka’s cock inside him. It just pushes Yuri closer to that edge that’s _just_ out of reach and it is _infuriating_ that he can’t quite get there.

“Beka, _please,_ ” he whines, trusting Beka to know exactly what he needs, and he _does._ Beka reaches between them to tug at Yuri’s erection. Once, twice, and he’s done. Yuri’s vision whites out for a moment and he can’t breathe again. It feels a little like dying, or seeing God. Beka kisses him through his climax, each stuttering splash of it hot against their skin. Beka follows him shortly after with an aborted moan. And then Beka is kissing him again, sucking on Yuri’s lips and neck and jaw to the point where he’s sure he’ll have a mark tomorrow for all the world to see when they win.

Beka is already falling asleep by the time Yuri tugs the condom off of him and puts it in the empty plastic cup on the bedside table. It’s gross, sure, but temporary; there’s no point in removing Beka from him. He’s got one arm between Yuri and the bed and the other slung over Yuri’s ribs in the loosest of embraces. Sleeping in bed with someone like this will be new but also… well, it’ll be Beka, so that’s something, at least.

He doesn’t dislodge him, but he does scoot to the edge of the bed to find his phone in his discarded hoodie pocket. Predictably, when he turns it on, Yuri has enough voicemails to fill the mailbox, so he sends a text to everyone that matters.

_I’m ok. We’re going to bed._

And then separately, to Yakov, a picture: the left side of his own face and neck and shoulder, with Beka asleep just behind him. He tells Yakov, _I’m definitely fucking the Kazakh boy, long term,_ and shuts his phone back down.

\--- 

They win. 

There was no doubt in Yuri’s mind from the very beginning, really, but the percentages are close enough in the end that their gracious competitors could very well call for a recount. They don’t, though, and Phichit even tells Yuri that he and Beka really _deserve_ the victory, and Yuri is taken aback. Beka kisses him again and again, right there on stage as the confetti falls and the producers carry out two enormous fake checks. 

“Come to Almaty for the summer,” Beka whispers in his ear over the crowd’s screaming, and Yuri finds himself nodding. 

He will stop in Moscow to see his Dedushka and drop off the majority of his winnings, because what is a nineteen year old going to do with a quarter of a million American dollars? But for his grandfather that money could go a long way. There’s some work that needs done on his house, after all, and he has had the same car since Yuri can remember. Yuri will take a little of that money to Almaty with him, where he will spend the summer with Beka, complaining about the heat and learning how to drive a motorcycle. He kisses Beka again, grateful for a silly televised dance competition, and Christophe fucking Giacometti.

Yuri can’t remember the last time he smiled like this. For once in his life it is not about winning anything or being _better_ than anyone; Yuri is happy because he is _happy._ Otabek is the best thing to come out of this competition, and that’s saying something. 

Yuri feels Beka’s arm slide around his waist, and together they turn toward Camera One and wave. Yuri flashes a peace sign for his Dedushka and hopes that he is watching half a world away, right there in his favorite armchair.

**End.**

**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoyed this work, please [come follow me on tumblr](http://sectumsempbro.tumblr.com) and be myfriend/watch me shriek in the tags about otayuri


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